


to be a king beside you somehow

by nauticalleeds (metamorphosis)



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Canon Divergence, Coming Out, Fluff, M/M, Met Gala 2019, because of course harry is wearing gucci hello, dedicated to harry's hosting for the first time, gucci, we are so proud of you our son, yes this is a met gala fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-03
Updated: 2019-05-03
Packaged: 2020-02-16 12:41:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18691705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/metamorphosis/pseuds/nauticalleeds
Summary: Alessandro is smoothing out the velvet across his shoulders, admiring his creation. “Perfect,” he mutters, turning Harry toward the mirror. Upon looking up, Harry gazes at his own reflection in wonder.Is that me?If he were to tell sixteen-year old Harry his current life, he figures that sixteen-year old Harry would’ve never believed it.You’re going to host the Met Gala in 2019 in a flashy purple suit and come out with the love of your life in front of the entire planet.Probably not. Sixteen-year old Harry would’ve gotten his mum to throw him out of the house. Sixteen-year old Harry didn’t even wear purple. Except for an ugly pair of trainers he had owned. Fashion mistake.Or, Harry and Louis come out at the 2019 Met Gala. It's not supposed to be easy. Somehow, it is.





	to be a king beside you somehow

**Author's Note:**

> hello. i am quite aware that i have not posted anything in 4 years, because i left the fandom for 3 years. thank you everyone for your patience & your lovely comments on my last fic that i kept receiving in my email, this is what has encouraged me to come back & create more content. you guys are the best. 
> 
> my beautiful, lovely writers group chat decided to work on a prompt for the met gala 2019. i love them. this fic is for you. and of course, you can read [sarah](https://lightwoodsmagic.tumblr.com/post/184593712317/finally-their-time-by-lightwoodsmagic-i-cant) & [eve's](https://forreveries.tumblr.com/post/184431885061/on-the-edge-of-the-next-nine-years-25k-by) work here!
> 
> thank you to [sam](http://bottomlinsons.tumblr.com), this work wouldn't have been complete with you. your endless encouragement propels me. thank you to my beta & best friend jasmine, whom i cannot link to because she swears up and down she will never join the fandom. however, this does not stop her from reading countless fics every night & from secretly being a louie. (that's right, jasmine. i just called you out on ao3.) 
> 
> title is from what a feeling by one direction. 
> 
> please reblog the post [here](https://nauticalleeds.tumblr.com/post/184626356635/to-be-a-king-beside-you-somehow-by) :-)

Harry think he’s hyperventilating. He can’t do this. He can’t.

Nonetheless, he’s being swarmed with people who tell him, _you can do it Harry, you can do it,_ except he feels like he _can’t_ , and he ducks into the private bathroom before there’s a chance that his lungs implode and rob him entirely of air. Because not only would that be terrible headlining -- _Harry Styles, Met Gala Host 2019, Sent To Hospital,_ but it also means skimping out on the most significant event of his life, one that was about to change the course of everything as he knows it.

An event of that is currently sending him into a cardiac arrest, or some other health malfunction. That’s fine. Everything is fine.

The bathroom smells faintly of frangipani or whatever fancy shit Gucci has in their bathrooms. They probably have someone spraying stuff in here everyday. It’s only when he places his shaking hands on the sink that he notices the guttural sounds in the bathroom. It takes another second to realize that it’s coming from him all along. Oh.

Alessandro probably shouldn’t have picked someone who was threatening to dry heave every ten seconds. Had he been panting like a parched dog this whole time? That’s probably unclassy for an establishment like this.

He must have been, because a second later, there’s a knock on the door. “Harry?” comes a muffled voice. It’s the recognizable, high pitched tone that brings him to his senses.

He gulps a breath of air, trying to keeping his knees straight so he won’t crumple to the floor. “Come in,” he manages.

He’s aware of the door opening, allowing in a fragment of noise from the hallway, before closing again and muting the bustling outside. Then there’s a hand on his waist, gentle, familiar, followed by an inhaler that’s being brandished in front of him, right below his chin.

“Thought you might need this, babe,” the voice says, quiet, and Harry feels his chest loosen.

Louis is here.

Louis is here, his face appearing in Harry’s peripheral vision, his touch comforting and knowing and present and _here_ , in New York, finally. Harry squeezes his eyes shut, allowing his shoulders to finally drop from tension that he wasn’t even aware of. He’s safe. He can breathe. He’s got Louis here now.

In spite of his nerves, Harry’s able to turn his head a little bit, just so he can look up at Louis gratefully. Louis’ smile meets him with tired eyes, albeit turned upward. There’s nothing in his expression that might hint of a similar panic that Harry’s currently feeling. No visible indicator, anyway. As always, Louis is holding it up together for both of them.

“You look lovely,” Harry says, hoping that his shaky voice is able to communicate its sincerity. Louis’ hair is mussed and product-free, a result from flying in. He’s wearing his travel sweater, his oversized one that he brings on planes, and Harry thinks there’s a coffee stain on there somewhere. He looks perfect.

Harry takes the inhaler, drawing in a few puffs as Louis smiles in response. It’s been awhile since Harry’s had to use this thing. Sometimes he forgets he even has asthma.

Louis reaches up to draw away a lock of hair from Harry’s face. “If you saw me an hour ago, I would’ve looked more lovely then. I had on a proper suit and everything,” he says, chuckling. “Now I’m just reduced to my trackies.”

Harry lets out a laugh, a stream of relief. “When did you get here?”

He knew that Louis had landed a few hours ago, but Louis had a fitting, too. He had assumed that Louis’ fitting for his suit would have been longer than his, including the commute time too, no doubt. New York’s a shitstorm to get through during this time of year.

“About ten minutes ago,” Louis tells him breezily. “Just in time for when I saw you nearly having a heart attack and had to rummage through your bag to save you with your inhaler.”

The love of his life is a fucking savior. “You’re a fucking savior,” Harry says. He means it.

Louis draws his hands behind his back, looking so small, and Harry wants to envelop him into a hug. “Is that who the savior in Girl Almighty is, then?” Louis laughs, the lilting chime of his voice filling the room. God, Harry’s missed that sound.

“Yes,” he says, reaching out to Louis, because two days without Louis has been too long, and he needs him _closer closer closer_. “You’re the savior in Girl Almighty.”

A look of fake thoughtfulness crosses his face, where Louis is pursing his lips and tilting his head slightly, until he shrugs. “I don’t know if I want to be the savior in Girl Almighty, to be honest. I don’t need someone to save me. I can save myself.”

Harry can’t stop the smile stretching across his face. “It’s a good thing you didn’t write it, then.”

“Sorry, John. Sorry, Julian,” Louis declares, an apology that the songwriters definitely won’t hear.

“Sorry, Julian,” Harry repeats. He’s not really thinking about Julian, though. He takes Louis’ hand, intertwining their fingers together, feeling how their hands fit, paying attention to just that. It grounds him.

By now, the air has returned back to Harry’s lungs, a change that had been unnoticeable, shadowed by how much he’s been smiling. Looking at Louis, he feels the muscles in his face relax, feels his teeth unclench. He squeezes Louis’ hand. _I’m glad you’re here._

Louis’ face softens, an instant response to Harry’s open touch, and lifts his face up to meet Harry’s gaze. A hint of a smile sits on his lips, easy. _I’m glad you’re here, too._

“You got any pictures of your suit?” Despite everything that’s about to happen, the one thing Harry’s excited about is to see Louis’ outfit.

The theme for the Met Gala this year is camp. “Camp: Notes on Fashion”, to be exact, and so it made perfect sense for Anna Wintour to reach out to Harry. According to her, anyway, and that’s enough for Harry, because what a fucking honour. But it was true; camp was Harry’s thing. His stage outfits on stage were proof of that. After years of assimilating to a boyband style -- black skinnies and white tees -- he had been endlessly fortunate to be able to don such flashy suits on tour. Harry lived and breathed whatever suits his stylist would present to him for each show, revelled in whatever sparkle or silk he got to live in for the night.

Louis, on the other hand, is more sporty than camp; his wardrobe is full of sweatpants and ball caps. Some of which belong to Harry’s, because Louis is notorious for clothing theft when it comes to Harry’s wardrobe. So, upon realization that Louis would have to wear a dazzling, embellished outfit for this event, Harry had been thrilled. To have Louis wear Harry’s favourite style of outfit would probably guarantee a heart attack. Nonetheless, a heart attack that Harry is ready, and very willing, to face.

Of course, Louis knows this. It’s only telling when he uses it to his advantage, by keeping his lips sealed about his outfit for the past few months.

So it’s no surprise when an expression that Harry only recognizes as teasing appears on Louis’ face. “Of course not, love. You’re supposed to be patient, remember?”

That’s unfair, because Louis is here at _Harry’s_ own fitting, two rooms away from where Harry’s suit is. “So you get to see mine, but I don’t get to see yours?”

“You’re the one who wanted for me to pick you up, babe,” Louis says easily, throwing a wink.

“Asshole,” Harry replies, but if his tone comes out soft, well. That’s the way it always is with Louis, no matter what mischief he’s up to.

“You love me,” Louis quips. And, yes, Harry does love him. Very much, in fact.

A quick rap on the door breaks their conversation, and Harry whips his head toward the sound before he remembers that right, there are other people in this building.

“Harry?” He recognizes the voice to be Laura, and her tone sounds rather urgent. Perks of being the assistant to the creative director, Harry guesses. “You all good?”

Harry looks back at Louis, who is playing with a loose thread on Harry’s shirt. “Yeah, I’m all right.”

“Good,” Laura calls back. “Alessandro needs you for one more pants measurement before tomorrow’s last fitting. If you could come out soon, that would be great.”

“I’ll be there,” Harry replies, but all he’s really looking at is how Louis’ eyelashes are pulled down, quick fingers twirling around red thread. The next thing he knows, the thread snaps, and Louis glances up. “Oops,” he whispers, not sounding all that sorry.

Laura’s footsteps retreat from the door, and Harry sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I’ll be out in probably fifteen.”

“I can wait with you,” Louis says, lifting his eyebrows.

It’s a trick. Harry gives him a pointed look. “If I can’t see your outfit, you can’t see mine.”

He bends down, and Louis meets halfway, but still, there’s a frustrated look on his face when they pull apart. “I could still linger, though, you know,” he says, a challenge in his eyes.

Harry can’t help but smile at Louis’ attempt to always finesse his way through something, even if he’s only half-assing it. Nine years of knowing this boy, and it’s always still the same. “You wouldn’t.”

Louis sighs exaggeratedly, but his eyes have a glimmer of mirth in them. “Yeah,” he admits. “I wouldn’t. Go get fitted in your fancy suit,” he says, directing Harry toward the door. “I have to pee.”

“I missed you,” Harry tells him before he turns the handle.

“I missed you too,” Louis says, his voice soft. “You’ll see me again soon.”

“I know,” Harry says, stepping out the door. He takes one more look at Louis, a smiling image with messy hair, and tucks it away in his mind.

\---

A minute later, Harry’s back in the room where it all started. Fortunately, this time, there’s not as many people here, a lesser burden. This time, he’s also had ten minutes of Louis to ease his breathing.

Through the maze of measuring tables and coloured fabric, Harry finds Alessandro, a focused frenzy of a man who seems to always know what he’s doing. Even after years of working with him, Harry can never understand how this man is able to juggle so many things. “Laura told me you needed me?”

“Yes,” Alessandro says, and just like that, Harry is directed back to the other side of the room, where his outfit is situated on a mannequin. His outfit. A fucking fantastical dream. When Alessandro had first presented the design to him, his eyes wide and tone excited, Harry had immediately fell in love with the visual in front of him.

“I had considered what would be appropriate for this event,” Alessandro had said, shielding the sketch away from Harry. “Maybe rainbow, for your coming out. But many people know that you have been gay for a while.” To that, Harry had nodded. His sexuality was never much of a secret, everyone who needed to know had already known.

“A rainbow is beautiful, but being gay is only a part of you. You are you. You are… Harry Styles, King of Camp.” The last words were said with a dramatic flourish, a phrase that had made Harry smile. _King of camp._ It had a nice ring to it.

“So,” Alessandro had continued, anticipation clear in his eyes. “I decided to enhance that part of you. To help you... embrace your royalty, let’s say. Because no matter what the media says, even after that night, you must remember,” he said, his voice dropping to a hush. “You are king.”

At Alessandro’s words, Harry felt the tears threatening to spring up. To have such a group of people behind him, holding up this entire fiasco. Harry didn’t know what he did to deserve this. Then Alessandro showed him the design, and he had promptly burst into unmanly tears.

The suit turned out to be even more beautiful in its physical entirety -- a simple design, with a bold colour: purple, because, Alessandro had stated, it was the universal colour of royalty. Along with the dark velvet, fitted specifically to hang snugly on Harry’s body, there was a kind gold, sequin trim that danced down the breast and the cuffs. Another subtle royal symbol, yet dazzling. The gold pattern also lined the sides of Harry’s pants, not as flashy, but still a statement. A flared collar sat on the top. It was beautiful.

The thing with the suit was that there was no shirt. Alessandro had noticed Harry’s puzzled expression upon realizing that there were no extra pieces under the suit jacket. “No shirt,” he had said, gesturing to the suit. “Just your chest. You up for it?” And Harry had grinned.

Now, looking at the suit, it’s a reminder. A reminder of how lucky he is to be able to wear it, how lucky he is to even be here, at this monumental moment. Not everyone would be able to be at his position, a place in their career where they’re able to come out. Harry is endlessly grateful for his team, Azoff pushing it to make sure that it would happen, grateful for Louis’ new team, accepting of the whole fiasco, supportive and agreeing of the whole thing. Grateful for Louis, who had squeezed his hand supportively, because even if it’s not easy, they’re in it, together.

Harry releases a breath, and focuses on what Alessandro has to say for the last ten minutes of his fitting.

\---

Because precision is of the utmost importance, the fitting ends up surpassing ten minutes, so Harry sends Louis away to the hotel. When Harry arrives at the hotel room two hours later, he finds Louis lounging lazily on the bed, and joins him by flopping beside him. They order in pizza and beer, because fuck it all if they don’t get to treat themselves before the biggest night of their lives. Then they laugh until Harry’s sure he’s about to snort out pepperoni through his nose. For the last night before the turning point of their lives, it’s not a bad way to go.

Their teams call in an hour later, and they pick up, nodding to instructions they’ve already went over countless times the last week. This call, unlike previous ones, isn’t too long. They’ve got everything in place.

They don’t talk about it after they hang up. They don’t need to, because all they’ve got is right now. If they don’t have tomorrow, Harry thinks, at least they’ve got right now.

When night approaches, they’re seated together on the couch, Harry’s head in Louis’ lap. Louis’ got one hand running through his hair, just the way Harry likes it. If Louis isn’t careful, Harry just might doze off and never wake up.

Fortunately, the only person who knows Harry better than himself is the one whose lap he’s rested on. It only takes a few minutes before Louis is tugging on Harry, dragging him to the bed, and they climb in with slow limbs and rested bellies.

Half an hour later, Harry’s mind is racing, wide awake. Turning his head, he wonders if Louis is sleeping, trying to get a good look. There’s a little bit of moonlight streaming in through the window that casts down on Louis’ sleeping figure, allowing Harry to note the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest. Louis looks peaceful, undisturbed.

God, Harry loves him so much.

There’s something familiar about this setting that brings another memory to Harry’s mind. July 2013, Houston, from six years ago. A similar setting to where they are right now, in a discreet hotel room shielded away from curious eyes and probing noses. Harry remembers.

“You think we’ll ever get to come out, Haz?” Louis had said. It was the attempted light tone of his voice that had caught Harry’s attention, an effort at hiding the tension behind his words.

A pause had went by as Harry considered what to say. “Yeah, I do,” he had said, because yes, he had thought about it. Thought about it a lot, in fact. But even so, he didn’t know how much truth there was to his statement.

Louis had then turned to him, abrupt, a crease in his brows. “But when? Fifteen years? Twenty? When One Direction doesn’t even matter anymore? How long do we have to wait?”

Harry hadn’t expected the stream of words to come out so suddenly. Clearly, this had been something on Louis’ mind for a while, and while Harry had been thinking about it, he didn’t know Louis had been thinking about it too.

But Louis was right. Maybe it wouldn’t be possible. Maybe they’d have to go through multiple fake relationships and denials before everything could ever truly come to light. _And who knows whether they’ll survive it all,_ Harry had thought grimly.

It wasn’t until six years later, headline after headline, stunt after stunt, that the idea could truly manifest. It wasn’t supposed to be so soon. But here they are now, Harry thinks, after months of planning with their teams. Here they are, with Louis curled up beside him, little puffs of air coming out of his nose as a gentle greeting on Harry’s face. Here they are, before the biggest night of their lives.

A burst of feeling swells up in his chest, and he takes Louis’ hand, omitting a slight snuffle from him in his slumber. Harry falls asleep, just like that.

\---

“You and Louis are going to get ready in separate hotel rooms, remember,” Harry’s assistant is telling him, ushering him into a car for their last fitting. Harry nods absently.

It’s the next day. _The_ day. Somehow, Harry’s nerves aren’t as bad as he would have anticipated from a week ago. Somehow, Harry thinks it all has to do with Louis, a calming presence. A presence that reminds him of why this is all worth it.

Louis had bid him goodbye this morning with a kiss on the cheek, blue eyes bright. “You’re gonna do great tonight,” he had said, to which Harry had pressed his hand to Louis’ face as a response. Because they needed separate hotel rooms for hair and makeup, and because of Harry’s host duties, they wouldn’t see each other until the gala.

“I love you,” Harry had told him, sincerely.

“I love you,” Louis had replied, taking his hand and pressing it to his lips. “We’re gonna be okay,” he added, voice low and sincere. It’s the only thing he needs to say before he pulls away, and Harry looks at him with tears in his eyes.

 _We’re gonna be okay._ Harry believes him. They have to be.

The last fitting is easy, quick. Alessandro completes all the finishing touches with fixated precision, like an artist would to his masterpiece. “Gorgeous,” he says, a final note, and the suit is carefully placed in a garment bag, ready to be transported to Harry’s hotel room. Harry himself is also transported to the hotel room, without said bag. Apparently, he’s not entrusted with it, just in case he clumsily drops it and fucks it up. Which is, admittedly, a highly plausible scenario.

That gives him one less responsibility to take care of. Instead, he settles into the car, catching up on all his text messages. A slew of support texts are coming in as the evening is fast approaching. There’s one from Liam: “ _You got this, mate x”_ and one from Niall: _“Gonna crush it tonight , bud”_ and in particular, one from his mum.

“ _Always have been so proud of you and Louis_ . _I love you both. Good luck tonight xx”_

He stares at the message for a few moments, a lump in his throat that he’s not able to identify. Locking his phone, he turns his head toward the window, watching the sights outside pass by. The city buildings in Manhattan are dense and so tall that Harry has to press his face to the window and crane his head to see the highest floor.

As they speed by, Harry can’t help but wonder how much they’ve seen in their lifetime. Buildings must have seen a lot, must have decades of experience. Yet, they’re unwavering, unmoving. Life still goes on, despite everything else.

He wonders how life will go on after tonight, and tucks his phone away.

\---

It’s not long until they finally arrive at the hotel, the sudden halt of the car bringing Harry out of his thoughts. Harry clambers up to the 20th floor with his team, and Alessandro arrives shortly after with the garment bag. Hair and makeup join them soon after, and they get to work.

Soon after, Harry’s in his suit, with his face done and his hair tousled. “We’re going to make you look like the rock star you are,” the hairstylist had whispered to him. The end resulted in having [curled waves](https://nauticalleeds.tumblr.com/post/184534513915/thestylesgifs-what-makes-you-beautiful-sydney) now framing his face, a true rock star look, he guesses. He likes it though, an enhanced version of what his hair usually looks like.

Alessandro is smoothing out the velvet across his shoulders, admiring his creation. “Perfect,” he mutters, turning Harry toward the mirror. Upon looking up, Harry gazes at his own reflection in wonder. _Is that me?_

If he were to tell sixteen-year old Harry his current life, he figures that sixteen-year old Harry would’ve never believed it. _You’re going to host the Met Gala in 2019 in a flashy purple suit and come out with the love of your life in front of the entire planet._ Probably not. Sixteen-year old Harry would’ve gotten his mum to throw him out of the house. Sixteen-year old Harry didn’t even wear purple. Except for an ugly pair of trainers he had owned. Fashion mistake.

“One more thing.” Alessandro brandishes something from behind his back. It’s a gold crown, fitted with red, blue and green jewels, sparkling and probably worth a big amount of money. He places it on Harry’s head.

Harry’s come so far. He really has, he thinks, as he feels tears threatening to appear in his eyes again. He really needs to keep it under control, tonight. He looks at Alessandro, gratitude on the tip of his tongue, but can’t find the words.

“I’m proud of you,” Alessandro says, throwing him a wink. “Go knock ‘em dead.”

\---

The way out of the hotel is full of flashing lights and shouts, everyone eager to get a first look of the outfit. Once again, Harry finds himself in a car, with Alessandro sliding in beside him. This time, his heart is beating wildly, threatening to jump out of his chest, and he fidgets the whole way to the Met. His team keeps glancing at him, concerned, but for the most part, the car ride is silent.

Once they arrive at the museum, it’s another frenzy to get to the red carpet, almost impossible. The crowd goes wild as soon as he steps out of the car, crown and all, and so many cameras are flashing that he’s afraid he’ll go blind.

Being host calls for doing a few important interviews, some of which are with Lady Gaga, who is the sweetest co-host Harry could have asked for. He goes through the motions, speaking into microphone after microphone, greeting everyone he needs to with a smile plastered on his face. Harry’s not sure if he remembers anything he says. Maybe it doesn’t matter, he realizes as he shakes someone’s hand for the fiftieth time. Maybe all that matters is right now.

He can’t keep his eyes off the entrance. He knows it’s probably obvious, the way how his head is turning every ten seconds. Fuck it. He doesn’t care.

Finally, a black-and-burgundy suit walks into the room, attached to a very familiar face that brings life to Harry’s lungs. Suddenly, Harry can’t hear the interview questions anymore, is only zeroed in on how Louis is laughing, how beautiful Louis looks tonight. For a moment, Harry forgets what they’re about to do. Louis is glowing, and Harry can’t look away.

As if he had sensed his presence, Louis looks up, locking eyes with Harry, and Harry feels himself take a sharp breath in. Louis’ mouth curves upward. _Ready?_ he mouths.

Harry can’t stop himself. He can feel his feet starting to gravitate towards the entrance, towards the most magnetic presence in the room. Immediately, he turns his head toward the interviewer, a lovely girl who’s currently holding a microphone to his face. “I’m sorry, can you give me a moment?” he asks, to which she nods, her expression bemused.

Maybe he’s imagining it, but there’s a hush of whispers that pass by as Harry makes his way back down the stairs, probably because he looks so frantic doing it. Nobody runs back down the red carpet stairs after they’ve gone up.

Louis’ confusion is clear on his face, because this wasn’t part of the plan. _Fuck the plan,_ Harry thinks as he approaches Louis, eyes staying on him. They’ve waited too long for this.

Louis is radiant. Now that Harry’s in front of him, he can’t help but drink in his appearance, how Louis’ hair looks so beautifully tousled, how his eyes seem to be shining brighter. How he looks in his black suit, clad with colourful sequins, and his burgundy jacket. In some way, he resembles royalty even more than Harry does. Perhaps it’s fitting.

A gleam of gold catches his eye, and Harry’s eyes are brought to where Louis’ collar is. With a jolt, he realizes what Louis’ got on each collar: a gold swallow pin. His eyes snap to Louis, who looks somewhat bashful. “I asked my stylist if I could have these,” he says, as a way of explanation.

Feeling his heart expand, Harry eagerly points to his bare chest, where his own inked swallows are peeking out. “We match,” he tells him. Louis laughs, a delightful sound.

With hesitation, Louis brings his gaze around the room, where a considerable amount of curious stares are directed at them. Harry watches as his eyebrows furrow slightly. “Weren’t we supposed to meet at the top of the stairs?”

“I couldn’t wait,” Harry admits, to which Louis pauses, before an understanding passes over his face. Slowly, the smile comes.

Louis holds out a hand, his smile threatening to blind even a thousand suns. “Shall we, your highness?”

There had been a million times that Harry envisioned this moment. Perhaps it would be through a scheduled paparazzi picture, a letter posted on social media. An interview on national television. Maybe it wouldn’t even be deliberate, if fate were so cruel to leak out their secret before they got to tell it themselves.

Somehow, all those imagined moments couldn’t compare to this, Louis’ anticipating gaze as he looked like the embodiment of royalty himself, dozens of cameras snapping away as the world seemed to look on in anticipation. Maybe they’re both kings.

It’s all worth it.

Harry can’t stop the grin stretching across his face as he takes Louis’ hand, lacing their fingers together. Immediately, the flashing lights increase, as do the uproar of voices surmounting the room. But all Harry can feel is Louis’ hand, a solid weight in his, as they float up the stairs together, step after step. He pulls them toward the abandoned interviewer, whose face is shocked, mouth hanging open. Harry can’t blame her. A moment passes before she seems to regain her composure, and she nudges the microphone toward them with wide eyes.

“Here we have Harry Styles and Louis Tomlinson,” she says, voice breathless. “That’s some entrance, boys. Anything to say?”

Harry looks over to Louis, whose eyes are bright and shining back at him. There are so many things to say. For now, he’ll just say one. He squeezes Louis’ hand before bringing his gaze back to the interviewer.

“I’ll let my fiancé do the talking.”

  
_the end_

**Author's Note:**

> if you enjoyed, please don't hesitate to leave a comment & reblog [here](https://nauticalleeds.tumblr.com/post/184626356635/to-be-a-king-beside-you-somehow-by) :-) your comments/reblogs is what keeps us writers going!


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